


An Account of a Dream

by VoxMisericordiae



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoxMisericordiae/pseuds/VoxMisericordiae
Summary: The written account of a dream. My subconscious is strange and frequently distressing.
Kudos: 6





	An Account of a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings for slavery (sexual and non-sexual), incest, grooming (kinda), underage (teen) and violence.

It began when I was a young man, perhaps 25 or so. I liked to think of myself as a soldier of fortune -- it seemed more poetic than calling myself a mercenary, though in truth that's what I was. I had a young wife and an infant son.

I returned home one day to find my wife dead upon the floor. If whoever had killed her had known of our son, he would have been dead, too -- but luck smiled on us, and they did not find him. I don't think they even looked. But they might return, and I could not protect the boy alone.

I should pause to explain, here, that we lived in something akin to a feudal state. A large cartel, dealing in products both legal and otherwise, ruled over our region. People in the region worked for the cartel, either directly or indirectly, as a sort of serfdom, and they were rewarded with protection from other organizations that wished to intrude on the land or the cartel's business.

My hometown was about a day's journey by foot from the home compound of the cartel's boss. The compound was heavily fortified, yet luxurious: an odd combination of military camp, training grounds, and grand estate.

It was known to most area residents that the cartel boss, the warlord, had no sons to pass the 'family business' to, and it had made him...temperamental. To me, this was an opportunity. I requested a meeting. And when the time of the meeting arrived, I brought my son.

It was the first thing the warlord noticed when I entered his study: the infant wrapped in a blanket, cradled carefully in my arms. I knew I should have been afraid, but for all that he was known to be a vicious enemy, his own lack of an heir had given him a reputation for gentleness toward children. I explained my situation to him. I asked him to shelter me and my son, and in return I would serve in his cartel however he saw fit.

He made me a counter-offer: he would adopt the boy and raise him as his own son. Nobody would know his true origins. And I would not serve the cartel; I would serve the warlord, himself -- not as servant, but as slave. I would give up my identity, my autonomy, and my voice, but in return my son would be raised in safety and prosperity.

What could I do? I didn't have any other options. I agreed. I kissed my son on his forehead and told him I loved him, then a maidservant took him away.

Those were the last words I would speak for nearly two decades.

I was already a skilled soldier; the warlord further refined that by having me trained as a bodyguard. At first I was fairly comfortable; my biggest worry was remembering not to question or complain. I did, once -- he had me beaten. It was easier to remember after that.

Later he began to test me. Deliberate little cruelties, little humiliations...little violations. I understood, in a way: he needed to be certain I'd accepted my role, that I truly was loyal and obedient, no matter what I endured. When it became difficult, I thought of my son. I served the warlord's household, and the boy was being raised as the his son. I saw him often, though I rarely had any direct contact. Still, I saw enough to know that he was thriving. They called him Alex.

Because of what I endured -- what I seemed to endure quietly, with as much grace as I could retain -- I gained a reputation among the cartel. I was the warlord's fancy-boy, a pretty decoration of his reign. The rumors were rampant: I was a fop, a useless thing, a catamite. Then they saw me stop a man who'd been sent to kill the warlord: stop him, and kill him. Quickly, efficiently, and without fuss. I was very good at what I did.

The rumors didn't stop; they merely changed. I was seen now a valuable commodity. I was desired, not merely for my appearance but for my abilities. And more than anything, for the idea of having someone with my abilities submit to them.

The cartel boss hadn't gained his position because he was an idiot. As the years passed and my reputation grew, he began to trade on it. He would give me to one or another of his covetous lieutenants as a reward for some success, and they would be my master for a night, subject only to two limitations: they could do nothing to render me unfit for my normal duties, and they could not...penetrate me.

Within those rules, they were free to do as they liked. Some were straightforward: they only wanted pleasure. Others were more creative in their cruelty. They knew I was sworn to both obedience and silence, and I was known also for stoicism. It became a game among them to try to force me to break that silence with more than a whimper. They wanted me to speak, or to moan, or to scream. They wanted me to weep.

I never gave them the satisfaction.

When my son -- Alex -- turned ten, he began to apprentice with his adopted father, shadowing the warlord and observing his business and the way he interacted with people. This was the first in a set of milestones that were observed in the cartel's culture: old-fashioned traditions that celebrated the steps toward manhood.

Manhood was a trait held in great esteem among them; all of the various aspects of it, such as virility, pride, power, dominance, that sort of thing -- they all went hand in hand. They couldn't grasp the idea of being a "man" yet not possessing all of those traits, and more.

Perhaps that is why they found me intriguing, for as the years passed my appearance changed from what could be called beautiful (in a young man) to something more traditionally masculine. If there were threads of silver at my temples, this was merely seen as a sign of being a mature adult male, so they found it all the more difficult to reconcile my apparent manhood with their knowledge of my role as a slave.

The more involved Alex became in the cartel's business, the more the warlord preferred to keep me close as a guard for both of them, and the less often he gave away my "services" to his lieutenants. If anything, this scarcity made me an even more coveted prize, but they had to do something truly monumental to earn it. I daresay I might have been the motivating factor behind some of the cartel's growth and success during those years. That seems like a strange thing to take pride in, but pride is the only thing that keeps a man from breaking. If I had to be a slave and a whore, then I would take what pride I could in that.

In hindsight, there's a bit of irony there: to take pride in my "work" I had to embrace it. To embrace it, I had to begin forgetting why I was doing it. I had to begin forgetting who I was.

The next milestone Alex reached was on his thirteenth birthday. It was then that he was no longer considered a child; he graduated from a room in the compound's family quarters, to a full suite of rooms of his own. Now that he would be living separately, he needed his own body-servant. I was the obvious choice. I wouldn't be surprised to find that the warlord had planned it that way all along.

So it was that the warlord formally transferred ownership of me to his son, and I took up residence with my new master. My duties were fairly light; since I was sworn to guard his person at all times, I did not even have to fetch-and-carry or run errands the way a more usual sort of slave would, as that would have taken me away from my charge. I did have to serve as his valet, caring for his appearance and belongings, but he required little from me in that sense.

I slept on a pallet on the floor of the young master's bedchamber. Alex wasn't always a kind master; indeed, he could be cruel, but only thoughtlessly so, in the way that young men will who are never taught otherwise. There was no malice in it, it was merely the way of the world as he had observed it. But overall it was a restful time: after all, I was no longer sent to serve the warlord's lieutenants, no matter how great their victories.

As he continued to grow up, he went through the changes that young men do, and soon enough he discovered an interest in girls, and began to dally. They were always free women, occasionally free serving girls but more often daughters of officers among the cartel -- so the young ladies had enough pride (or sense) to deny him what he really wanted. They dangled it as bait, though, hoping to snag him in a promise of marriage.

It was on Alex's sixteenth birthday that things...changed. A young lady of particularly high breeding had spurned him at his own dinner gathering. His pride had been sorely wounded, and consequently he was in a nasty temper -- he stormed out. Naturally, I followed on his heels.

We'd just gotten back to Alex's rooms when there was a sharp knock at the door; his father entered immediately after knocking, without waiting to be granted permission. As the warlord took Alex aside, I stood a respectful distance away, he was going to lecture the boy on appearances and the social obligations of a leader. And indeed he did.

But at the end of it he suggested that Alex might be less moody if he satisfied his needs with something better than his own hand. And, with a cruel half-smile on his lips, he tilted his head meaningfully in my direction. What followed is burned into my memory as a series of vivid impressions, but not a coherent set of events.

I remember that the warlord remained in the room. He remained a good distance away and never laid hands on either of us, but was making suggestions that his son was following with alacrity.

I remember being ordered to strip; I did so, feeling strangely numb and distant, as if I were observing events from outside my own body. There was no art to the way I moved, it was purely mechanical.

I remember being pushed down over a storage chest, then being mounted. I remember the way the young master hissed in pleasure as he forced himself into me, and I remember him observing in delight that I was "unbelievably tight." I remember his father laughing -- a quiet, cruel laugh -- and wishing his son a happy birthday, because this gift was one he'd saved for Alex for years; it was why he'd never allowed anyone else to have me in that way.

And then the warlord turned to leave the boy to continue in privacy, but paused in the doorway to give me a stern look when he heard me make a soft, pained noise in the back of my throat. There was malicious humor in his voice as he reminded me of my oath of silence. And then he was gone, and his son...did what young men do.

This set the tone for our relationship, from that point forward. In the public eye nothing had changed; behind closed doors, Alex made certain that every inch of me belonged to him, and only him. He was jealous and possessive, as many young men are, and nothing I could do would truly assure him of my loyalty, so he sought to impress himself onto my very skin. The marks always faded, and when they did, he'd place them there again.

I've said before that pride was the only thing that kept me from breaking. And so it was again, for if I did not take pride in my role then I would feel shame in it, and shame would shatter me.

So I began to take pride in the young master's attentions and in the marks he left upon me. I took pride in the way that, over time, I was able to teach him things -- things like massage, that he could enjoy though it didn't involve sex, and -- for when he insisted on the sex -- things that would be more pleasurable for both of us. Sometimes he disregarded the lessons because he just wanted to -- well, to fuck something. But mostly he was a good student.

We weren't lovers, not by any stretch. But I think there was warmth there, somewhere -- even if the warmth he felt for me was the warmth one feels for one's favorite possessions.

So it continued until Alex's eighteenth birthday, the final milestone, the one that marked him as legally becoming an adult and thus fully coming into his role as the warlord's second-in-command and heir. The occasion was such a big one that the entire compound was taken over by a festival spirit. A feast was planned, with a bonfire and dancing well into the night. I was there, of course, quiet and focused, watching my master as he danced with each of the eligible young ladies in turn.

There were murmurings all around; people commented on how he'd matured from a temperamental, spoiled child into a mature young man. They wondered how the regime would change, and if his father would go into retirement and hand the reins over completely. They speculated on whether a marriage match would be made soon.

But at the end of the night, as the sky turned grey with the first hints of dawn, nothing had been announced, and Alex staggered home weary and drunk, leaning on my shoulder.

When we reached his suite he barely managed to remove his clothes before collapsing onto his bed. Smiling and shaking my head, I picked up the discarded clothing -- I mentioned that I served as his valet as well, yes? -- and put them away, then stripped down and prepared to go to my own rest.

The young master was face-down on the bed with his head pillowed on his folded arms, but when I glanced at him I realized he was still awake and watching me. Having caught my attention, he complained in a lazy drawl that he ached all over from the events of the night.

Never let it be said that I couldn't take a hint. I got out the oil.

I worked in silence, massaging the fragrant oil into muscles and joints that, even if not sore now, would surely be so in the morning. The young master said nothing further, only uttered the occasional muffled groan of appreciation.

The process of massage was almost as soothing and meditative for me as it was for him, so I was stretched out over him, my chest sliding against his oiled back, when I became overwhelmed by deep affection, and even desire. There was no hiding it, the evidence was pressed against him.

Perhaps that is why he didn't seem surprised when I leaned down beside his ear and broke nearly eighteen years of silence to whisper brokenly, "May I..?"

He answered my simple question with a single word, and though his voice was muffled against his arms I could still hear that it was thick with desire: "Yes."

Blame the oil or the massage or the exhaustion, but sliding into him was effortless; it was like coming home, and he welcomed me in. But as I pressed our oil-slicked bodies together, I finally wept -- for I remembered then who I was, and I knew that the young man I had somehow fallen desperately in love with was my own son. And I shattered into a thousand pieces, for shame overwhelmed me, but love put me together once more only for me to shatter again.

Nothing would ever be the same.


End file.
